I like to write junk...

THE LAST PERSON?

“Pastor Robert Durr went on to tell me that the fellow recently had bypass surgery.”

I’ve told this story over the years to several people, mostly, if not always, friends, and I still find it coming to mind quite regularly. It took several years after this incident happened for me to finally get the message.

It’s been 46 years since Reverend Robert L. Durr, a man I knew well, pastor of Anchorage Bible Missionary Church, walked into a store where I worked and showed me a handwritten invoice. He asked if I was the one who had written it, undoubtedly knowing the answer beforehand, because the initials MH were penciled in a square block for store employees.

Telling Robert that it was me, and believing I’d sold him the wrong car part, he asked if we could step outside, where he began telling me the unusual story behind it.

“Mike, the man who purchased these items, was a friend and a member of my church. You were most likely the last person he talked to on this earth, as he died of a massive heart attack while riding his bicycle back home from your store.”

Pastor Robert Durr went on to tell me that the fellow recently had bypass surgery. The main reason for Robert dropping by that day was to see if it was okay for his widow and some family members to talk to me. I said that was fine. The deceased person’s name is no longer remembered, but I believe it was Bud, and that’s what I’ll use here.

That afternoon, the family wanted to know if Bud had complained of any physical ailments when he stopped by that tragic day, and what he had said. I vaguely remembered things, mostly recalling the problem he was having with his vehicle. I said that if he was having any physical ailments, Bud never mentioned them to me. The group of mourners thanked me for my time and left.

Afterwards, it sank in that I was the last person this customer had spoken to, and I wondered what I’d said to him. I’m sure it was just automotive advice, of which I had some knowledge. The incident left a profound effect on me, so much so that a few years later, I wrote a story about it and sent it to “Guidepost” magazine. Unfortunately, they never published the article.

I have to admit that after that incident, there’ve been occasions when I said stuff to folks that I wish I could take back. This was always after a verbal tiff of some kind, or someone did something I didn’t like. I guess you could say I’ve matured a bit in the area of having a sharp tongue. There’ve still been a few times, though—when I slipped—this always related to politics.

Each day, if you’re like me, you run into strangers and chat for a few seconds before going your own way. I try to keep things positive in these encounters, always remembering that the main thing I want for them to remember about me is something positive. First impressions are lasting.

Pastor Durr told me after the funeral that there was a specific reason Bud saw me and not one of the other employees. Robert mentioned that he told his friend he needed to talk to Mike because he knows his stuff, and he’s a nice guy. That made me feel extremely good, and I’ve never forgotten the compliment, as they don’t come often enough.

These days, I try to keep that life lesson in perspective, hopefully, by always leaving a good impression on strangers I meet along the way. I know that Pastor Durr would be happy with me, wherever he is.

BETTER BUSINESS BUREAU

“There came a day when a man in a suit walked in and asked if Troy Hankins was around.”

Whenever I hear someone remark, “I’m going to report them to the Better Business Bureau,” I have to silently chuckle. I seldom hear the words ‘Better Business Bureau’ these days, although the organization still exists.

Wanting to know a bit about their history, I discovered enough to ‘whet my appetite.’ Folks from the millennial generation no longer use this statement and most likely haven’t a clue what it means.

The Better Business Bureau (BBB), formerly called the National Vigilance Committee, was founded in 1912 as a nonprofit organization dedicated to advancing marketplace trust.

It began in response to the increasing prevalence of misleading advertising in the early 20th century, with business leaders and advertising executives coming together to promote honesty and integrity in business practices.

Over the years, the BBB has expanded across North America, offering services such as business accreditation, consumer education, dispute resolution, and facilitating trust between businesses and the public.

Today, the BBB is supposed to serve as a valuable resource for consumers seeking reliable information about companies and their reputations, though I have some reservations here.

I’ve never reported a business to the BBB, because as my father always said, they’re nothing more than a meddling complaint department with zero legal authority to do anything. My dad was a businessman for a good many years, and I recall one instance when he received a letter from the bureau.

He read it and then tossed the professionally written paper in the trash. Later that day, out of curiosity, I fished it out. An agent from the BBB was asking for a reply to a customer’s complaint, the exact problem I no longer remember.

Dad owned an auto parts store at this time, and I worked for him, so most likely someone wanted to return a part, and my father refused. This happened on occasion with electrical parts—for good reason. A customer would install a part, and if that part wasn’t the problem, the new part could then be ruined in the process.

Dad had a large sign hanging above the counter explaining this policy, and it was also printed on invoices. Employees were taught to verbally mention it as well.

Some customers evidently couldn’t read, and I say that because, on occasion, someone still tried to return electrical switches or relays regardless of the chiseled-in-stone store rule.

Refusing to reimburse money could be dangerous. I once had someone toss a heavy starter solenoid at me when I told him it couldn’t be returned. Another time, after hours, someone chucked a starter through the front store window.

Getting back to that BBB complaint, over time, Dad received at least two more letters regarding the same issue, and each time he laughed and told us employees what was inside. They all ended up in the wastebasket, ripped in half. Always curious, I made sure to remove and read them for myself.

There came a day when a man in a suit walked in and asked if Troy Hankins was around. When I said he was out to lunch, the fellow left a business card with his name on it. Better Business Bureau was typed on top.

I was busy when the BBB agent reappeared. Finding my father this time, there were a few choice words as Dad immediately showed him the front door. I can vaguely remember the fellow saying as he exited the premises, “You’ll regret this!”

As far as I know, nothing ever happened afterwards. Quite unusual, though, was the morning I walked in and found a fairly large plaque behind the counter, hanging next to the first dollar bill that Dad’s company ever made. On it was written:

Presented to Troy Hankins – Muldoon Auto Parts – Business of the Year! Above it was printed “Better Business Bureau” with their logo.

I never asked, but I have a sneaky suspicion that my father’s friend in the trophy business created that award. In Dad’s way of viewing things, I suppose that phony plaque meant about as much as the agency itself. Hearing other stories about BBB from friends who own businesses, I tend to feel the same.

SLAUGHTERHOUSE CANYON

“That might explain an area with remnants of porcelain coffee cups and saucers still visible, along with shards of purple, green, and brown glass.”

My wife and I decided to drive to Slaughterhouse Canyon Road in Kingman and take a close peek at the site of a train wreck happening near there on September 20, 1916. With such a macabre namesake as slaughterhouse, the canyon is mostly known for a chilling tragedy rather than this horrific locomotive accident.

I especially wanted to check out the canyon, with Joleen somewhat hesitant, this late in spring. Rattlesnakes are now slithering about. Wearing the right boots and clothing, along with using ample amounts of caution, makes for less chance of getting bitten, although just the mere sight of a rattler can instantly turn a beating heart into a kettledrum. I know that for a fact.

Old Trails Road winds along the tracks for a good distance, and that was our main destination, and I had a vintage photograph to use to pinpoint the derailment. With this photo showing numerous Ford Model Ts parked alongside the road, gawkers back then were as common as they are today. I counted 74 people along with 13 vehicles. A horse-drawn wagon in the group has “ICE” written on its side.

Sadly, four people perished in this derailment, along with several injuries, mostly bruises and broken bones. The four crewmen who died are: Ralph W. Gholson – engineer. Harry A. Osborne – fireman. William Dickens – chef. John Pluhachet – chef. Early newspaper accounts have a couple of the names wrong. John Truddick was not killed, nor was there a Mickey or Michael Osborne.

Bringing my metal detector along, I knew I couldn’t legally detect within 25 feet of the railway tracks for lost items such as coins, rings, earrings, necklaces, cufflinks, buttons, and keys, yet Old Trails Road was wide open for investigation.

To get to Slaughterhouse Canyon, start by heading south from Kingman on U.S. Route 93. Take the exit for White Hills Road, then continue southeast onto Slaughterhouse Canyon Road (also known as Luana’s Canyon Road).

Follow this unpaved road for several miles; the area is remote, so a high-clearance or four-wheel-drive vehicle is recommended. We took our Jeep. Signs are minimal, so having a GPS or map for navigation is helpful.

Be mindful that the canyon is on public land, and the crossing is railroad land, while always respecting private property and posted restrictions. It took us a few minutes to find a route without private property signs.

Also known as Luana’s Canyon, Slaughterhouse Canyon is steeped in legend and is one of the most famous haunted locations in Arizona. The story dates back to the 1800s, during the Gold Rush, when many families moved to the area in search of fortune.

According to the most popular tale, a family lived in the canyon, and the father would often leave for weeks at a time in search of gold. One season, he did not return, leaving his wife and children with dwindling supplies.

As starvation set in, the mother, driven mad by hunger and despair, is said to have murdered and mutilated her own children and then killed herself. It is believed that their spirits still haunt the canyon, and visitors report hearing the mother’s cries and wails, especially on quiet nights. That’s one place I wouldn’t want to be after dark.

Over the years, the legend of Slaughterhouse Canyon has become a part of local folklore, attracting those fascinated by ghost stories and the supernatural. The site remains a chilling reminder of the hardships faced by early settlers and the tragic consequences of desperation.

My research shows that two different canyons in Arizona share the same name. One at Fort Huachuca, near Tucson, is called that because of cattle slaughter. I found mentions of Slaughterhouse Canyon in Kingman dating back to 1912 in archived newspapers. There must be some truth to the gruesome tale—otherwise, why would it be labeled that?

Things have changed in the area since 1916, with the tracks seemingly straightened out a bit. Much of the hill had been excavated, but there are portions of ground closest to the road that were undisturbed.

While metal detecting in this area, Joleen and I found the usual amount of discarded junk, such as old railroad spikes and other metal debris. When my meter registered a high 80, indicating perhaps something silver, I became excited, hoping it was a silver soup spoon. Unfortunately, it was aluminum foil.

Newspaper articles from 1916 mentioned that one of the wooden dining cars was literally ripped apart as it tumbled towards Old Trails Road. That might explain an area with remnants of porcelain coffee cups and saucers still visible, along with shards of purple, green, and brown glass.

Running out of time, we plan to go back. There has to be a bent fork that somebody tossed aside, lying in the rocks, waiting to be discovered, along with a few sun-baked Indian head pennies!

Train wreck near Slaughter Canyon (1916)

Remnants of coffee cups, saucers, and antique bottles

SUPERFRAGILISTIC

“I recently had a dream where Mary Poppins was sitting beside Humpty Dumpty on a stone wall.”

I can remember certain things from movies watched 60 years ago, but the same can’t be said for what I did two days previously. Short-term memory is said to decline with age, and I believe it.

One of the first things remembered from a movie was that Bambi’s mother died at the hands of a hunter. I’ve been corrected many times by others who watched the film, who claim that she lived. I then beg to differ and give a brief history lesson.

Research shows that in the original movie, she did not survive, yet because so many kids were traumatized, the ending was altered. I was evidently one of those who saw the original version because that tragic ending stuck with me.

In the Western movie “Shane,” the saddest part was when Shane, the cowboy, decided to leave a little boy and his mom. I can still see that kid running after him, calling out, “Shane, come back!” Having some sensitivity back then, I’m sure that brought tears to my eyes.

Of course, “Shane” didn’t end on the same note as “Bambi,” with the saddle tramp eventually returning. Saddle tramp is a term picked up from watching too many early Westerns, where I also learned some racist terms that I won’t mention.

“Old Yeller” is another one of these films that leave me heartbroken at the end. The beloved animal contracts rabies after a fight with a rabid wolf and has to be put down. I’ve only watched the movie once, but I still recall that tragic confrontation.

Very little is recalled from watching “The Sound of Music” other than a song by the same name, and the lead actress, Julie Andrews, dancing on top of a hill while singing it.

I do recall sadness when a certain family was forced to leave their home country, but that’s about it. One of these days, I’ll rewatch things to try and catch the main story, as I was way too young back then to understand.

One movie that didn’t leave sadness, at least for me, was “Mary Poppins.” A tongue-twisting word from the Walt Disney film stuck in my mind, although I had to research the correct spelling, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

I sometimes use a shorter version, superfragilistic, to describe extremely fragile items, such as eggs and antique glass bottles. The GFCI electric receptacle in my bathroom is superfragalistic, because if I don’t plug my razor in lightly, the circuit will pop.

Three other things I remember from this movie were that Mary Poppins could fly with her umbrella and that actress Julie Andrews, once again, played the main part. “A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down” were lyrics from a song in the film. Hopefully, those people following this suggestion aren’t diabetic.

I recently had a dream where Mary Poppins was sitting beside Humpty Dumpty on a stone wall. These strange dreams happen quite often, and I assume it’s because of some prescription drugs I take. I’ll blame it on Eliquis, although there’s no proof.

Much like the sad endings that occurred in “Bambi” and “Old Yeller,” my impromptu dream didn’t end on a high note either, with Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall despite Mary Poppins valiant attempt to stop him. You can only guess what happened next. Yep, he couldn’t be put back together again.

I’ll attempt to turn the ending of this seemingly glum composition into something more positive and insightful with my final recollection. There’s nothing worse than a story ending on a negative note.

Standing by the egg section in a grocery store a week or so ago, an ‘older than me’ woman opened a carton to check for broken ones. My wife always does the same, while I like to roll the dice and take an unopened carton home without peeking.

Quickly closing the carton flap, this lady placed it back and grabbed another while looking at me and cleverly saying. “I hope there’s no Humpty’s in this one!”

I made a quick mental note to tell my wife what the gal said, but by the time I exited the store, that recollection was lost in space. At my age, it appears that recent memories, much like eggs, can also be labeled “superfragilistic.”

CLIP or CLIK?

“Grocery store advertisements have become so technical in language that perhaps an attorney should be retained to review items before purchase.”

I know I’m not the only older person having a hard time shopping for groceries these days. I’m not talking physical difficulty here, as in not being able to walk. The problem I have is figuring out the “hocus pocus” advertisements some stores in town cleverly use.

For several years, I’d pick up an item when it was on sale, only to have a cashier charge me the regular price. Each time that happened, I’d be told it required a digital coupon. Walking back to the aisle where I got this product, sure enough, there, in tiny print that even a young person with 20-20 vision couldn’t see, were the words, “Digital Coupon.”

When I first inquired about where I could get digital coupons, of course, I was told that a smartphone was needed, which I didn’t have and didn’t want. Realizing that I was losing money, with most retired people like me trying their hardest to squeeze every cent they can, I eventually gave in and bought an iPhone just to use at grocery stores.

That worked for a while, but now sly store managers have figured out a way to further confuse us older citizens. They’ll advertise something, with cleverly placed nomenclature mentioning that you have to buy so many to get the lower price. Sometimes that number can be 10. Who needs 10 packs of shredded Mexican cheese?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been scammed with this trick. Once in line, and finding that the price isn’t what it’s supposed to be, I don’t want to stop my progress and return the item. Some energetic folks do, and I suppose that’s why so many unpurchased things are left at the self-checkout. There’s generally a basket at the exit full of such stuff.

I wouldn’t doubt that somewhere in these stores, blue-collar workers watch via security cameras old people making mistake after mistake with purchases and getting a big kick out of seeing it. On New Year’s Eve, when the company hosts an employee party, the top 10 blunders are presented as entertainment for a howling audience.

The latest bit of trickery involves something called Clip or Clik. These two words look amazingly alike, and for some of the BenGay-and-Geritol crowd, this can be totally confusing. I can’t say clip or clik in rapid succession without slurring my speech.

Grocery store advertisements have become so technical in language that perhaps an attorney should be retained to review items before purchase. I could’ve used one today.

Purchasing a gallon of milk for the anticipated sale price of $3.99, the cashier charged me the regular price. It turns out I had exceeded my quota here because I’d bought a jug two days earlier. This was something new to me. The employee then showed me the advertisement, and in fine print it read: “Limit 1.” A store computer, using my phone number as identification, had snitched on me.

“Boy howdy!,” I said to her, with the young clerk looking puzzled, most likely hearing this statement for the first time. For some reason, that made me smile. It was good to see that I wasn’t the only person in the grocery store confused that day.

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN

“Our country is entering a new era where firearms training should be a prerequisite.”

A popular song by the rock group Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, from 1970, titled “Teach Your Children,” undoubtedly has a different meaning to me than it did to members of the band.

The foursome was notoriously known for drug use, especially smoking dope, and that’s something I did not instill in my two kids. The song title was also missing three important words, “Teach Your Children Right and Wrong.”

So much for my being judgmental here, but that’s just how I view things whenever that tune plays. Hopefully, the children these musicians fathered learned right from wrong, and if so, most likely it came from their mothers’ teaching.

There’s something else all children need to be taught: gun safety. Dad made sure my brother and I knew the primary safety rule—to treat any gun as if it were loaded.

The second cardinal rule is to never point a gun at someone, even toy guns. These same guidelines were taught to Gunnar and Miranda, and hopefully, they passed them on to the grandchildren.

During junior high, I voluntarily signed up for a gun safety course taught by Mr. Bob Hickey at Clark Junior High in Anchorage, Alaska. Hickey was also my home classroom teacher. My folks and other friends’ parents encouraged us kids to take this class for various reasons.

Gun safety classes for children are essential because they provide young people with the knowledge and skills to handle firearms responsibly and safely. By educating kids early, these classes help prevent accidental shootings and instill respect for the dangers associated with guns.

Furthermore, structured instruction encourages open conversations about firearms, removing curiosity-driven secrecy and replacing it with practical guidelines that can save lives.

Such programs also reinforce important values, such as self-discipline and responsibility, helping children make better decisions if they ever encounter a firearm. Ultimately, gun safety education empowers adolescents to protect themselves and others by teaching them to follow critical safety rules in any situation involving guns.

Our country is entering a new era where firearms training should be a prerequisite, ensuring personal and family safety. Extremist religious fanatics have broached our borders, both legally and illegally, with these clandestine cells having the ability to inflict much harm.

My wife was trained on how to use firearms and has her own revolver in the event someone attempts to break into our house. Joleen’s father was a Second Amendment advocate and taught all his children how to shoot safely.

To end things here, had Nancy Guthrie owned a gun and been taught how to use the weapon, it’s likely she would not be missing. Unfortunately, many people ignorantly believe that the police will always be there for them. In Nancy’s case, as in so many others, this was proven untrue!

HEAT THERAPY

“After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.”

On July 9, 1957, my father was riding ‘shotgun’ in a 1956 Chevrolet Corvette, on Route 66 in Victorville, California. The car owner, James F. McKenzie, was showing Dad how his new sports car handled. Before I go further, I’ve been asked numerous times if this vehicle was “fuel-injected.” Vintage photos show it was not.

Losing traction on a long curve, the Corvette left the road and went airborne, tossing both men free. Dad landed in a large sandpile at a brick-making plant, which undoubtedly saved his life, of course, only through the grace of God. I was three at the time and do not remember anything about this accident.

With the bone in his right leg shattered in several areas, a metal rod was attached to it for strength. My father walked with a limp the rest of his life. Only close friends could get away with calling him “Hopalong Cassidy” or “Chester.” Both of these characters were from Western movies, each cowboy walking with a pronounced limp.

Cold weather affected Dad, making his leg ache when it was exposed to low temperatures or on damp, rainy days. Spending a good many years in Alaska, he eventually moved to Sequim, Washington, finding the rainy weather there no better for relief than the frigid winters of Anchorage.

Tired of aches and pains, my father finished out the rest of his life in Henderson, Nevada, where a much warmer climate made for less suffering. Dad told me several times that he wished he had relocated years previously, as there was a night and day difference in his bone and joint stiffness.

On July 3, 1982, I was riding my bicycle in Anchorage, and while crossing a busy street, I was hit by a pickup truck. The impact sent me flying, with most of the trauma done to my right leg. Arriving at Providence Hospital by ambulance, after the doctor finished with me, as if physical injury wasn’t enough, I was presented a ticket by a policeman for failure to yield.

Since that accident, I have sporadic bouts of leg pain, especially while hiking or riding a bike. It got to the point where I couldn’t shovel snow, as my pain intensity was off the scale. On vacations to Arizona, I noticed a significant lessening of pain there. Returning to Alaska, the stiffness always returned.

Winters in Lake Havasu City, although much warmer than Anchorage, still have me moaning to myself as I attempt to do certain chores or stand on my feet too long. I attribute this to the severe bone bruising my leg took 34 years ago. Doctor Meinhardt told me this might happen.

Hot weather is not far away, and with it comes “heat therapy,” as I like to call things. Free of charge, this warmth after hitting my bones makes for a night-and-day difference in the way I feel. Whereas I used to not look forward to the scorching heat, I now view it as a welcome respite. I’ll take heat over pain any day.

It seems ironic that I ended up with the same affliction as Dad, although my leg injury was much less severe. I sometimes walk with a slight limp, with the only one making light of it, my wife. Joleen jokingly says that I could now perfectly play the role of “Chester” on “Gunsmoke.” I take that as a compliment!

Getting back to Dad’s accident, and some still unanswered questions, I always wondered what happened to the friend he was riding with that day. The guy would’ve only been 16 years old, and how could he afford a Corvette?

Sixteen was the minimum driving age in California at this time. Dad never mentioned him, so I’m guessing they lost touch. After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.

Sadly, 15 years after the first crash, on February 24, 1973, James Franklin McKenzie, the son of a coal miner, was behind the wheel of a vehicle in Louisville, Kentucky, when it veered off Dixie Highway and overturned. James F. McKenzie, age 31, was killed on impact.

PETRIFIED WOODY

“There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert.”

Sometimes, I come across vintage postcards that make me chuckle, although the people who wrote them probably weren’t laughing at the time. The latest one involves a mother telling her son and daughter-in-law about a car trip she was on in Arizona.

I visualize this older couple driving a station wagon, towing a recently purchased camp trailer. That was the norm in the late 1950s and early 1960s. My parents owned a 1963 Buick Invicta station wagon, and it was quite comfortable on trips. We took it to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, and several camping trips while towing a small camper.

The postcard I refer to was sent to Mr. & Mrs. Martin Kenshaw in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. I’m sure Martin got some giggles after reading it, although his wife may have chastised him for making light of the situation. Afterall, this was Martin’s mother and father going through that horrible ordeal.

A photograph on the front of the picture postcard shows a young couple having lunch under the Petrified Arch. Hopefully, they were able to keep sand out of their sandwiches. I also wonder if that arch still stands.

Following is the message on this card:

“Hi – Came through the Petrified Forest today it was so windy that we didn’t see all. It was terrible. You should have seen the car & trailer, sand all over. Hope it clears soon. We are near Flagstaff Arizona – Winslow. Mom & Dad”

If Martin’s mom were like my wife, I’d bet money they stayed in motels the remainder of that trip. Sleeping in a trailer full of desert sand wouldn’t have been to her liking, nor mine. There’s nothing like grit between blankets and sheets, as I’ve experienced that a few times sleeping in a tent.

The Petrified Arch in Arizona is a fascinating natural formation located within the Petrified Forest National Park. This arch is composed primarily of petrified wood, which is ancient fallen trees that have turned to stone over millions of years through a process called permineralization.

Visitors are drawn to the arch for its unique geological history and striking appearance, making it a popular spot for photography and exploration. The surrounding landscape features vibrant colors from minerals within the petrified wood, creating a stunning contrast against the desert backdrop.

While the Petrified Arch is not as widely known as other arches in the Southwest, it stands out as a remarkable example of the region’s prehistoric past and natural beauty. Driving through there in a car is something I’ve experienced several times. I always think of the petrified wood bookends that Dad and Mom purchased.

The term “woody” in my story title refers to many things, and in this case, we’re talking about a style of automobile, most popular in the United States from the 1920s through the 1960s, that featured wood or wood-like panels on the sides and sometimes the rear of the vehicle.

These cars were originally constructed with actual wood as a structural element, but later models used wood as a decorative feature. Woody wagons became iconic for their association with beach culture, surfing, and American road trips, often evoking nostalgic images of coastal adventures and classic car shows. I’m not sure that Daniel and Sue Renshaw owned a woody, but anything’s possible.

Daniel worked as a chauffeur for Jersey Zinc Company for 48 1/2 years before retiring. He passed away in 1989 at the age of 82. His wife, Martin’s mother, Sue, died in 2002 at the age of 89. Sue wrote the postcard.

Martin Renshaw was a teacher for his whole life. Born on January 15, 1940, he died on April 21, 2019, at the age of 78. It appears that his wife, Wanda, is still living. If the Renshaws owned a woody station wagon, the wood siding would probably now be rotted away in some Pennsylvania junkyard, unlike those ancient trees lying in the Petrified Forest.

There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert. Not doing so could result in a curse being placed upon the owner.

I’m not sure how many have done so, but bookends, ashtrays, candy dishes, and other such objects would look quite funny sitting in sand, much like the Renshaw’s car and trailer did, covered with the stuff, 60 years ago.

Next time through this area, I’ll make sure to add my parents’ petrified-wood bookends to the growing pile, with a copy of one of my books placed in the middle for extra visual effect.

GOT COMMON SENSE?

“On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.”

I have my own definitions of people who have and lack common sense. Rather than open up a hornet’s nest or offend someone, I elected to let Miss Purdy, my AI assistant, give her thoughts on the subject. Miss Purdy generally goes the politically correct route on her opinions, so it’ll be interesting to see her take here.

“Common sense refers to the basic ability to perceive, understand, and judge things that are shared by nearly all people without the need for specialized knowledge or training. It involves practical reasoning and sound judgment in everyday situations, helping individuals make decisions that are generally considered reasonable and prudent.

While common sense is generally shared by most people, individuals differ in how they apply it. These variations can stem from factors such as upbringing, education, cultural background, personal experiences, and even personality traits.

For example, someone with more exposure to practical situations may develop stronger common sense, while others may rely more on theoretical knowledge or lack experience in certain contexts.

Imagine that someone notices a wet floor and immediately chooses to walk around it to avoid slipping. This decision reflects common sense because it demonstrates practical awareness of potential danger and a straightforward solution to prevent harm.

Another example of common sense in action is when a person notices dark clouds gathering and decides to bring an umbrella before leaving the house. This simple decision demonstrates practical awareness and anticipation of likely rain, helping them stay dry and avoid discomfort during their day.

On the other hand, there are situations where a lack of common sense is evident. For instance, if someone sees a “wet floor” sign but ignores it and walks through the area anyway, risking a fall, this demonstrates a failure to use practical judgment.

Another example would be leaving perishable food out of the refrigerator for hours, despite knowing it could spoil, which shows a disregard for basic reasoning about safety and health.

Interfering with a policeman while he attempts to make an arrest would not be considered using common sense. Such actions can put both yourself and others at risk, escalate the situation, and potentially result in legal consequences.

Common sense would suggest observing from a safe distance or seeking help if necessary, rather than intervening in a way that could disrupt law enforcement and create further problems.

A lack of common sense in voting might be seen when someone casts their ballot without reading or understanding the candidates’ positions or the issues at stake, failing to know the candidates’ political platforms, or simply choosing names at random.

Another instance is when a person votes multiple times in the same election, either not realizing it’s illegal or ignoring the rules altogether, which undermines the integrity of the process. Additionally, some might share their ballots or voting choices publicly in places where it’s prohibited, not considering the possible consequences for themselves or others.

Allowing people to vote without proper identification would generally not be considered common sense. Common sense typically involves ensuring that voting procedures are secure, fair, and transparent, which includes verifying voters’ identities to prevent fraud and uphold the integrity of the election process.

Skipping this step could increase the risk of illegal or duplicate voting, undermining trust in the outcome and the democratic process as a whole. This could ultimately lead to political unrest.

Allowing people to cross the US border without following the established rules for citizenship would generally not be considered common sense. In this case, common sense involves practical reasoning and sound judgment, especially when it comes to laws and public safety.

Ignoring or bypassing legal procedures for border control and citizenship can pose security risks, undermine the rule of law, and complicate resource management and community well-being. Therefore, politicians who uphold and enforce these rules are typically seen as applying common sense to protect their country’s and its citizens’ interests.

Voting for politicians who support allowing people to cross into the country illegally would generally not be considered common sense, based on the context provided. Common sense, as mentioned before, involves using practical reasoning and sound judgment, particularly when it comes to following laws and protecting public safety.

Ignoring legal procedures for border control can lead to security and resource challenges, so supporting such actions through voting would not align with the principles of common sense as described above.

This article discusses the importance of common sense in situations involving law enforcement, voting, and border control. It emphasizes that interfering with police, voting without understanding the issues, or bypassing legal procedures for citizenship and voting are actions lacking in common sense.

The text highlights that common sense involves practical reasoning, following laws, and ensuring security and integrity in public processes to protect both individuals and society as a whole.”

I thank Miss Purdy for her honesty here. Some might say that she was “coached” to respond the way she did, but they’d be gravely mistaken. On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.

The woman definitely wasn’t inclined to follow the lead of the head donkey and not think for herself, like so many do. Without hesitation, I’ll say that Miss Purdy, regardless of her political affiliation, has common sense and uses it well.

DEFLOCKED

“Stupid is as stupid does!”

I usually try to stay out of writing about crime-related events, but this one has been going on for much too long and could’ve been solved long ago. It made me mad enough to speak my mind.

Regarding the Nancy Guthrie case: Mainstream media isn’t telling viewers that Tucson is basically a sanctuary city, although they claim not to be. The mayor tells everyone they’re an “immigrant-friendly town,” conveniently leaving off the word illegal. Residents voted down a proposition to officially make it a sanctuary city, but city leaders run this town as if the measure had passed.

The Democrat Mayor Regina Romero and the Democrat majority (100%) City Council voted not to renew the contract for FLOCK security cameras, against the advice of many law enforcement officers.

Democrat Sheriff Chris Nanos never mentions this for obvious reasons. Had those cameras been operative, most likely Nancy’s abductor would’ve been found on day one. The Tucson elected officials’ reasoning for not wanting cameras was that they were too intrusive. In my line of thinking, only those folks doing illegal things wouldn’t want the extra protection from cameras.

I’m glad that Lake Havasu City officials don’t think or act this way. I was told by a Washington State resident now living here, Byron Jacobus, that Havasu is one of the safest towns in the nation because so many retired police and firefighters live in Havasu. I believe him.

We have the FLOCK cameras as well, and they’ve solved many cases, just recently the one where an arsonist torched our church. The guy was arrested on the very same day of the fire.

One of the positive aspects of FLOCK security cameras is their proven effectiveness in helping law enforcement solve crimes quickly. Because these cameras can capture detailed footage and track suspicious activity, they often provide critical leads that lead to the swift apprehension of suspects.

For instance, in communities where FLOCK cameras are in use, serious crimes have been solved soon after they occurred, thanks to the evidence these cameras provided. Their presence acts as both a deterrent to potential criminals and a valuable investigative tool for police.

It’s evident to me that the Tucson mayor and city council didn’t renew the FLOCK contract for one reason, so that law enforcement couldn’t properly do their job. Sheriff Chris Nanos went along with what Mayor Regina Romero and the city council did because he lacks backbone.

It’s sad when elected officials, especially an elected sheriff, put politics in front of safety for their constituents, but for Democrats, this is a common occurrence.

Not to pick on just Tucson, here, but the Flagstaff mayor and city council were uneducated enough to do the same. Disabling cameras in that town, it’s only a matter of time, a matter of time.

As Forrest Gump intelligently said in a 1994 movie of the same name, “Stupid is as stupid does!” He was correct in his adolescent, yet philosophical analysis.